“’Deed it’s nae wonner ye sud speir, laddie! for it’s weel kent ’at maist mithers, gien there be a shargar or a nat’ral or a crookit ane amo’ their bairns, mak mair o’ that ane nor o’ a’ the lave putten thegither--as gien they wad mak it up till ’im, for the fair play o’ the warl. But ye see in this case, he’s aiblins (_perhaps_) the child o’ sin--for a leear _may_ tell an ill trowth--an’ beirs the marks o’ ’t, ye see; sae to her he’s jist her sin rinnin’ aboot the warl incarnat; an’ that canna be pleesant to luik upo’.” “But excep’ she war ashamed o’ ’t, she wadna tak it sae muckle to hert to be remin’t o’ ’t.” “Mony ane’s ashamed o’ the consequences ’at’s no ashamed o’ the deed. Mony ane cud du the sin ower again, ’at canna bide the sicht or even the word o’ ’t. I hae seen a body ’at wad steal a thing as sune ’s luik at it, gang daft wi’ rage at bein’ ca’d a thief. An’ maybe she wadna care gien ’t warna for the oogliness o’ ’im. Sae be he was a bonny sin, I’m thinkin’ she wad hide him weel eneuch. But seein’ he’s naither i’ the image o’ her ’at bore ’im nor him ’at got ’im, but beirs on ’s back, for ever in her sicht, the sin ’at was the gettin’ o’ ’m, he’s a’ hump to her, an’ her hert’s aye howkin a grave for ’im to lay ’im oot o’ sicht intill: she bore ’im, an’ she wad beery ’im. An’ I’m thinkin’ she beirs the markis --gien sae it be sae--deid an’ gane as he is--a grutch yet, for passin’ sic an offspring upo’ her, an’ syne no merryin’ her efter an’ a’, an’ the ro’d clear o’ baith ’at stude atween them. It _was_ said ’at the man ’at killt ’im in a twasum fecht (_duel_), sae mony a year efter, was a freen’ o’ hers.” “But _wad_ fowk du sic awfu’ ill things, mem--her a merried woman, an’ him a merried man?” “There’s nae sayin’, laddie, what a hantle o’ men and some women wad du. I hae muckle to be thankfu’ for ’at I was sic as no man ever luikit twise at. I wasna weel-faured eneuch; though I had bonny hair, an’ my mither aye said ’at her Maggy hed guid sense; whatever else she micht or micht not hae. But gien I cud hae gotten a guid man, sic-like ’s is scarce, I cud hae lo’ed him weel eneuch. But that’s naither here nor there, an’ has naething to du wi’ onybody ava’. The pint I had to come till was this: the wuman ye saw haudin’ a toot-moot (_tout muet ?_) wi’ that Cat’nach wife, was nane ither, I do believe, than Mistress Stewart, the puir laird’s mither. An’ I hae as little doobt that whan ye tuik ’s pairt, ye broucht to noucht a plot o’ the twasum (_two together_) against him. It bodes guid to naebody whan there’s a conjunc o’ twa sic wanderin’ stars o’ blackness as yon twa.” “His ain mither!” exclaimed Malcolm, brooding in horror over the frightful conjecture.